


i know it hasn't been a dream (but if you pardon i will mend)

by thispapermoon



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Hecate Extra Hardbroom, Hicsqueak, Pippa Pentagle is a pent-angel, could be Hackle if you squint at the first bit i suppose, post S1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-17 01:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13648599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispapermoon/pseuds/thispapermoon
Summary: Ada pauses to hold up invitations which she passes round. The paper is expensive and crisp beneath Hecate’s fingers and she scowls down at words like “cocktails,” “light fare” and“fine robewear.”“We really must charm them,” Ada twinkles at her staff, pausing to allow for the chuckles that accompany her wordplay.Hecate feels a headache coming on.****In which Hecate is forced to attend a Midsummer Banquet and ends up rubbing shoulders (and more than shoulders) with rather more than she bargained for.





	i know it hasn't been a dream (but if you pardon i will mend)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh gosh, this is my first Ao3 fic and the first fic I've written in a long, long time. It all just sort of...happened.
> 
> Hecate is so extra I cannot even deal, I love her so. 
> 
> Title is from Grimes' song Pin. All mistakes are my own. Hope you enjoy!

Hecate Hardbroom has never demeaned herself enough to plead with anyone, ever, in her life, thank you _very_ much. Though as Ada rambles on and on about the importance of enticing donors, wooing parents of prospective students, and _mingling_ , Hecate very damn well considers it.

“The Midsummer Banquet, hosted by the Society of Exceptional Sorcery, is a chance for us to promote the reputation of Cackle’s Academy to some of the biggest names in the witching and wizarding world. We can showcase that we have the best and the brightest instructors,” Ada says, nodding to the staff gathered around the table, “and thus produce the best and brightest witches.”

Ada pauses to hold up invitations which she passes round. The paper is expensive and crisp beneath Hecate’s fingers and she scowls down at words like “cocktails,” “light fare” and _“fine robewear.”_

“We really must charm them,” Ada twinkles at her staff, pausing to allow for the chuckles that accompany her wordplay.

Hecate feels a headache coming on.

_________

And while, no, she doesn’t plead with Ada to excuse her from the banquet, she does find plenty of ways to attempt to escape the impending social gathering.

On Tuesday, the day after of the staff meeting, it’s a loftily raised eyebrow and dry comment that Ada cannot possibly want _her_ to mingle with the high and mighty invitees. After all they _want_ to leave a good impression.

Ada doesn’t even look up from the copy of _Who’s Who: The Craft’s 100 Most Influential People_ that she’s procured in preparation.

“Just stick to the subject you’re best at and try to avoid small talk. And no turning _anyone_ into a bat, no matter how you feel the conversation has devolved.” She pauses at that and owlishly looks up and over her glasses.

“You’re one of the most qualified instructors and notable assets of our school, Hecate. You’ll do just fine”

Hecate ducks her head to hide the pleased flush that fans across her cheeks. By the time she looks up, Ada’s back at her book with such an aura of determination that Hecate doesn’t dare press the matter further.

__________

Wednesday brings an interruption in the form of Ada just as Hecate’s assembled all of the ingredients for a massive variation of the Weather Spell.

“Oh Hecate, dear, have you been reading _Witching Weekly_?” Ada bustles over, brandishing the paper at Hecate. “Dreadful drought in the southeast this summer. Just terrible for those poor farmers.”

She peers down at the array of ingredients strewn across the tables of the potions lab.

“Oh, of course, yes, you must have read the article, and that’s _very_ thoughtful of you, dear. I know witches aren’t supposed to meddle, but the farmers are so desperate, and I suppose one storm couldn’t hurt. Don’t let me stop you,” she says, perching on one of the nearby tables.

She settles herself and smiles benevolently over at Hecate. “In fact, I’ll help you send it down south today once it’s ready. Funny, us sending weather to farmers in desperate need, when the organizers of the Midsummer Banquet have taken every precaution to magically ensure no weather related event will compromise the venue at Birchwood Forest on Saturday. How privileged we are!”

She disappears behind the paper again, rustling it loudly.

Hecate grits her teeth and measures out slime of a slug in defeat.

______

On Thursday, Hecate is determined to argue her case and sway Ada from involving her in such a spectacle. She reviews a mental checklist to herself as she approaches Ada at breakfast, in the corridor after first class, before lunch, after lunch, in the biography section of the library during break where Ada is pouring over _Fame and Fortune: 100 Richest Witches_ , before dinner - and - and - _that’s funny_ , Hecate thinks.

Everytime she works up the courage to speak with Ada, she’s hit with the realization that she’s left her cauldron on and has to transfer back to the lab and ensure it’s properly out, which even more oddly, it always is.

It’s highly unusual for her to be so forgetful, and she spends dinner fretting that the stress of the impending event on Saturday is getting to her. It’s not until she looks up from her soup and see’s Ada smirking at her that she realizes it’s very likely not stress at all.

Hecate slams down her spoon and stomps off to her evening rounds hungry.

___

She waits until Friday evening before knocking on the door to Ada’s office. It’s humiliating, _so humiliating_ , but much less humiliating than making a fool of herself in front of the top echelons of magical society.

Ada bids she enter, and Hecate produces the black handkerchief she keeps up her sleeve and presses the door open on an almighty “AAAAACHOOOO.”

It’s enough to startle Ada’s familiar up from the cushioned chair by the fire and Hecate shuffles, _shuffles_ , over to it and drops down.

“Ada,” she croaks, pitching her voice down further than it’s natural timbre, “Good evening.” She slumps back in the chair and waits.

“Good evening, Hecate,” says Ada, unfazed, rising form desk.“Would you care to join me in some tea?”

Hecate’s fingers twitch against the wooden arm of the chair and she summons a large cough to accompany her “Please.”

Ada is rather longer with the tea things than usual, and by the time she’s turned around, Hecate has magicked a sickly, feverish sheen to her face. If she were the sort of witch to cross her fingers and hope for luck, Hecate muses, she would do so now. The thought makes her sniff as much out of abasement as pantomime.

But Ada is serene as she magics a plate of biscuits into being and passes Hecate her cup. “Had a good week then, Hecate? Summer break giving you time to relax a bit?”

It’s either growl or sip tea, and Hecate buys herself time with the latter option.

Fire. Pure fire burns its way down her throat. There’s a fizzing in her blood and a burst of steam blasts from her ears with a whistle like a tea kettle. The teacup drops from Hecate’s hand and Ada magics it back to the safety of the saucer while Hecate's eyes tear and water as she gasps.

“Ada, Ada _Cackle_. W-wh- _what_ , was in that _tea_?” Hecate sputters once she’s swallowed half a dozen times and caught a bit of her breath. “A potion by Mildred Hubble?”

Ada leans forward concerned for the first time since Hecate entered the room. “Just a bit of my mother’s recipe of Anti-Influenza Pepper Potion and just a _drop_ of whiskey.”

She pats Hecate’s knee. “You seemed a bit under the weather, dear, and this potion will fix you right up. It’s entirely impossible to come down sick once you’ve had even a drop.” She leans back in her seat, pleased. “We wouldn't want you ill during your holidays, would we?”

Hecate wonders if she is truly above being sick on Ada’s favorite carpet.

________________

Saturday dawns perfectly clear and placid and Ada stops by with a cup of tea (non-spiked) and an apology.

“I know I’ve been hard on you this week, Hecate,” she sighs as she settles into one of the straight back chairs in Hecate’s sitting room. “You know I don’t normally push this sort of fanfare, I’m rather inclined to let the test scores of our students and the long standing reputation of the school to speak for itself.”

Hecate settles across from her and softens a fraction as Ada sighs yet again. “It’s just this whole ordeal with Agatha. As you know a few of our major donors have withdrawn and a few concerned parents have pulled their students.”

“Fools.” Hecate sniffs.

“Yes, well, it’s understandable that there’s a bit of a mar on the name of Cackle’s Academy given the events of the past year, particularly our very brightest student from one of the most notable witching families, Esmerelda Hallow, losing her powers.” Ada sets down her teacup and meets Hecate’s eyes, which are suddenly wide and rather wet at the mention of her former prize pupil’s name.

“I fear we simply must put our best foot forward this evening if we want to keep our school fee-free, as it has always been, as as I hope it always shall be.”

Hecate nods solemnly, and in a rare gesture, reaches out to squeeze Ada’s hand. She releases quickly and nods once more. She’ll do it. For the school. For the students. For Ada.

____________

The sun is starting to dip in the sky, dusky pinks just visible along the horizon, when Hecate steps in front of her mirror runs a critical eye over her appearance.

Her dress is long, dark, an almost imperceptible midnight blue that is nearly black, with sleeves that split at her elbows and flow down to floor length. The skirt is a bit more generous than her her daily garments, and billows slightly in the breeze that floats in from the open window. And while it cinches at the waist, much like her day dresses, the fabric stops at the top of her chest where it turns into a delicate spiderwick lace that lays daintily across her bare upper arms and shoulders.

It’s neither too revealing nor overly matronly, which pleases her, and yet Hecate can’t help but shift self consciously at the touch of  air against her neck and shoulders. Waving her hand she magics her usual makeup and hair into place, and the dark eyes and red lips staring at her out of the mirror helps ground her as she finds something familiar in her reflection.

Birchwood Forest is hardly far at all, so she spells out the lights in her chambers and stands for a breath in the dark, steeling herself, before transferring away and into the swiftly approaching twilight.

____

She materializes in amongst the trees on the outskirt of a large glade. The Society of Exceptional Sorcery has outdone themselves. Fairy lights are strung in abundance, giving off the otherworldly glow, and if Hecate squints, yes, there really are hundreds of will-o'-the-wisps dancing high up in the trees, tossing silvery light against the pale branches.

She hovers on the edge of the clearing, taking in the atmosphere and trying to tamp down the feeling that the will-o’-the-whips are dancing in her very stomach and not just in the trees.

Long silver tables laden with canapés stand at intervals across the clearing and several large fountains bubble cheerily with drink. Music chimes gently beneath the laughter of elegant witches in their summer finest, and if Hecate didn’t know better, which she does, she would think that she’d stumbled into a fairy ring.

There’s a disturbance in the air to her right and Dimity appear beside her.

“Quite a shindig, isn’t it?” She bounces on the balls of her feet, her silver and aqua gown catching the lights from above and casting a thousand sparkles on the ground around her.  “Ah, you clean up quite nice, if you won’t hex me for sayin’ so, Hecate Hardbroom.”

Hecate tries not blush and keeps her eyes focused on the crowd before them. “Thank you, Dimity. As do you.” The words come out slowly, as if pulled from her, as they often do when she is feeling out of her element.

Dimity seems to take it in stride and chortles to herself. “You know what they say about Midsummer, eh?”

“I can hardly fathom.”

 _“Witches’ reign,_  
_Love revealed,_  
_Won’t love in vain,_  
_Hearts be healed.”_

Hecate snorts. “Really, Dimity.”

“Well, I reckon by the way that fountain is flowing, there will be several “hearts” getting healed tonight, if you know what I mean.” Dimity chortels again and Hecate redoubles her efforts to stare a hole through the venue.

“I rather believe I don’t, Miss Drill. Now, if you’re quite finished with the witching rhymes of school girls, I believe it’s in all of our best interests to _mingle._ ” Her mouth forms the last word as if it has a disgusting taste to it and with that she straightens her back and heads into the glittering crowd leaving Dimity still chuckling behind her.

She beelines for the drinks fountain, less out of a desire for the sickly sweet bubbles that the fountain is producing but rather in order to find something to do with her hands. She’s just finished topping up her goblet when she turns to find Ada in a golden suit dress blocking her way. She has her hand on the arm of a rather old but stately looking warlock who inclinds his head politely to her as Ada makes the introductions.

“Grandmaster Wallow, may I introduce Hecate Hardbroom, Deputy Headmistress and Potions Instructor at Cackle’s Academy. Hecate, may I present Grandmaster Wallow, Head of Oxspell’s Apothecary and Pharmaceutical Potions.”

Hecate bows and brings her hand to rest on her forehead. “Wellmet, Grandmaster.”

“Wellmet, Miss Hardbroom.”

She straightens and finds Ada beaming at her. “Well, I’m sure you two will find you have much to talk about. Grandmaster Wallow is looking to mass produce a potion to cure bouts of hiccups.” She nods significantly at Hecate and backs away. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

Hecate bites back a reply that any witch or wizard worth their broomstick would know how to brew a simple Hiccup Relief Serum, but she tamps it down and forces a smiles up at the Grandmaster tipping her glass against his.

And in the end she can’t say she’s _dreadfully_ dulled by the conversation. The mass production of potions is a topic that interests her peripherally, in an academic sense, at least. And though she’ll never state it in present company, she does fret internally about the dangers of outsourcing magic and the potential it has to decrease the capabilities a magical family has for The Craft.

Grandmaster Wallow seems delighted though when she does slip and admit that she would much rather be spending her Midsummers picking Calendula blossoms at midnight. He drags her over to meet other potion minded moguls who also laugh good-naturedly when he shares her preference for the evening, and she finds herself almost grinning despite herself.

Still, it is exhausting. She listens more than she talks, taking minuscule sips of her beverage to make it last as long as possible. One of the men is now telling a tale of how he (foolishly, thinks Hecate) mixed up Rudbeckia blossoms with Calendula one Midsummer and ended up with top strength itching power rather than a healing salve.

It’s just when she’s wondering how she can extract herself from the conversation that there’s a shimmer in the air near the center of the clearing and a beautiful witch in an ethereal, pale pink gown steps from the thin air into the party.

The sheer visual beauty of the scene knocks the wind out of Hecate momentarily, only to leave her gasping again as the beautiful witch turns her head and she realizes it’s _Pippa._

There’s near silence in the clearing for a moment, even the music goes quiet, and then suddenly there’s a buzz and swarm to greet the new arrival. It takes a moment for Hecate to realize that she’s been left alone as the men around her flock towards Pippa’s side.

 _Well. That’s one way to get out of a conversation_.

From where she stands, frozen, drink in hand, Hecate can hardly even see Pippa through the throng of people. A wisp of blond hair here. A shimmer of dress there. She catches sight of Pippa with her hand to forehead in greeting, Pippa throwing back her head and laughing, a man taking Pippa’s bare hand and kissing it.

Mouth dry, heart pounding, Hecate turns away and heads towards the silver tables with the canapés, only to realize that her stomach is beating a roiling tempo in time with her heart. She turns away from the food, and once again into Ada, who introduces her this time to a well connected perspective parent.

Hecate allows herself half a second for her heart to squeeze up into her throat one last time before she slips into the role of her most aloof, most in control, most competent, no-nonsense, deputy headmistress, and bows a reserved and dignified “Wellmet” to Mistress Nightblood.

Ada flits off again into the crowd and Hecate loses track of time as she answers all of the typical school related questions, studiously keeping her gaze trained on Mistress Nightblood rather than the crowd behind her.

It’s not until the conversation comes to a natural close that Hecate chances a glance to the spot where Pippa had appeared. The crowd has dissipated and Pippa is nowhere to be seen.

_Not that she’s looking._

Feeling suddenly all at once too hot and too cold, Hecate sets her half full goblet down on the table and slips through the throng until she’s at the edge of the glade. She takes safe harbor against one of the larger trunks, training her eyes out into the crowd. Still, no Pippa.

It makes her feel queasy, to see Pippa so unexpectedly. To feel a jolt of attraction in her stomach before even realizing that the beautiful woman was her friend. Her  _friend._

Hecate chews on her bottom lip and considers the last few months, some of the happiest she has had since she was a schoolgirl. Having Pippa back in her life has brought about an explosion of color. _And in more ways that simply Pippa’s wardrobe_ , Hecate thinks wryly.

Since the events of the Spelling Bee and their reconciliation, they’d seen each other on a nearly weekly basis for the rest of term, and earlier on in the summer sometimes thrice a week or for whole weekends. The awkwardness of their first few encounters had quickly faded, and soon Hecate had found herself in a state of blissful companionship she hadn’t nearly come close to since she cut Pippa from her life all those years ago.

They’d gone on a punting trip to collect lily blossoms by the light of the full May moon one weekend. Rowing up the river by Pentengle’s, camping under the stars at night, giddily sharing stories from the number of years they’d spent apart and memories from their youth --  all the while nipping at a bottle of Scotland's finest.

She’d lent a magical  hand to Pippa to help repair the roof over the boys dormitory at Pentangle’s at the start of holidays, during which they’d both gotten terribly sunburned. The two of them had spent the evening in unexplainable fits of giggles as they brewed up a numbing potion, so much so that Hecate's ribs ached the next day along with her skin.

Hecate felt _young_ again. There was no explanation for the joy she felt pounding through her chest at the mere sight of Pippa’s scrunched up nose as she considered her next move one night at chess. Or how startled she’d felt by her own full body laughter as Pippa had said, _“You’re dead meat, Hardbroom,”_ and then gone and made a terrible move.

There was lightness. There was familiarity. There was love.

_Love._

Hecate swallows the hard knot that has spooled up in her throat.

There were moments where Pippa would sit so close to her that Hecate could feel her body heat despite the warm summer air. Or when they went on that picnic to Fern Hollow because Pippa had been desperately hoping to catch sight of a wood sprite. But the dusk had come in and the day had settled down into evening around them with no luck. And after their dinner Pippa’s head had drifted down to rest on Hecate’s shoulder until her whole body fit snuggly against Hecate’s side. As though it was meant to be there.

And Hecate curls her nails into her palm at the memory because she knows that is is not.

Or, on some occasions, more frequently of late, Hecate would glance over to see Pippa regarding her so warmly, so frankly, that she’d have to clamp down hard on her emotions and excuse herself, least she do something regrettable and lose the truest friend she’s ever had.

The music in the glen becomes more lively and in the distance someone whoops, tearing Hecate from her revery. She catches Ada’s eye across the crowd and gets a big thumbs up and a wide grin.

_Good then. At least all will turn out for Cackle’s and things can return to the way they were before._

Before. Before Pippa was back in her life with her brown eyes and her golden hair and her warmth, her warmth, her warmth.

And in her mind Hecate recognizes her own thoughts for what they are and knows that there’s only one path left to her.

She’s done it before. She can do it again. Pippa will hate her forever, but it’s best this way. Pippa, who is expecting _friendship_ , and Hecate, who will always yearn for something more.

Hecate shivers in the night air and a voice behind her says, “Chilly? I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t think your shoulders have been out in public since our broomstick waterskiing days.”

Hecate feels her spine turn to steel and she freezes in places as Pippa appears around the tree beside her.

“Pippa.”

“What are you doing, hiding back here, Hiccup?”

Hecate shrugs, her gaze not straying from the crowd before her where some witches are now dancing the Midsummer Minuet.

“Feeling shy?” Pippa’s voice is warm and she nudges up against Hecate, only to gasp as she flinches away.  

“Hiccup?”

“It’s fine, Pippa, you should go dance.”

“Come with me?” Pippa crosses in front of Hecate and ducks her head until she can catch her eye. “You look gorgeous this evening, Hecate, everyone should see how beautiful you are.”

“I think you should go back to the dancing, Pippa.” She replies coolly as she steps around her and begins to head back towards the glen, towards Ada, towards a reprieve that will allow her to go home early, now that she’s done her duty to the school, and lick her wounds in peace.

But she knows she’ll never make it across the glen to get Ada blessing to depart as soon as Pippa’s hand catches the crook of her elbow and pulls her back.

“Hecate, what is it? Are you alright?” And then, softer, “Talk to me? Hiccup?”

The nickname warms Hecate from the inside out, but she schools her voice into one of her most disciplinarian schoolmarm tones. Curt. Unyielding. And frightfully frigid.

“That’s _very_ familiar of you, _Miss._ Pentangle.”

And in the moment before she wrenches her arm back and transfers herself away, Hecate glimpses the pain and disbelief that flashes hot across Pippa’s face. And as she fades into nothing, she wishes she were making a mistake.

_________

She lands hard in her chambers, her breath coming out in ragged bursts. Flicking her fingers she brings the lights up  --  and squawks at the sight of Pippa Pentangle sitting in one of the chairs by the fire, Morgana curled up on her lap.

“I’ve always been much quicker at transference than you.” Pippa says flatly. She strokes Morgana’s back, headless of the black fur that’s drifting down across the pale expanse of her dress.

“Sit.”

Hecate knows it’s not a spell, but it very well could be given how her knees jerk into action, as though she’s controlled by a puppet master, until she’s sitting in the high backed chair across from Pippa.

Pippa conjures tea and pours it out, flicking her wrist until Hecate’s cup hovers in the air before her.

“Explain.”

She’s gazing evenly at Hecate and Hecate has to bow her head to escape the red-rimmed eyes and tear tracks that betray Pippa’s calm. She mechanically lifts the tea cup from the air and brings it to her lap, expecting to take some comfort from the warmth, instead finding the tea to be lukewarm. Another tell that Pippa’s not as controlled as she appears.

She glances up at Pippa who has just pulled a face at the temperature of her own tea and set it aside, her fingers returning to Morgana’s fur. Hecate’s eyes follow, hypnotized.

Long minutes creep by, stretched between each tick of the clock on the wall, made heavier by the silence of the empty castle around them.

Hecate tries to find words. Tries to _think_. But her brain, usually so well ordered and disciplined, is scrambling, scampering around the corners of her mind like cornered prey.

Finally, as the clock chimes, Pippa sighs. She pats at Morgana’s hindquarters until she rises, stretches, and hops from her lap, and Pippa rises as well to pace before the fire.

“I never understood, not fully, why you pulled away from me all those years ago, Hecate.  And I understand even less why you are doing so again now.”

Pippa’s eyes are suddenly very wet and Hecate clenches her teeth together so hard that she can feel a muscle twitching in her jaw.  

“You know why.”

“No. No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“Don’t patronize me!” Pippa whirls around and glares at Hecate, chin tucked, fire in her eyes. It’s the same expression she had on her face the day she decked Hattie Hailstorm in the chin and then pushed her into the pond for calling Hecate a freak in their 4th year.

“For my own good? You don’t get to decide that for me, Hecate Hardbroom.”

Hecate can hear a roaring in her ears and she swallows several times to keep the bile building in her throat at bay. She should have known that this time it would be harder.

But she thinks about Pippa appearing in the clearing, lithe and ethereal. Of how picture perfect the image of Pippa with a handsome man kissing her hand had looked. The flock of admires around her.

Any words she can think to say stick in her throat and she’s so lost in _breathing in, breathing out,_ that she’s doesn’t notice for a moment that Pippa’s come close, so close that Hecate has to tilt her chin up for their eyes to meet.

Pippa’s fingers move as though they’re going to reach for her, but she seems to think better of it and clasps them together tightly in front of her. “Is this because of how you feel about me?”

The roaring in Hecate’s ears has grown louder, but she tamps it down and straightens her shoulders. If the truth is going to come out, she might as well retain her dignity.

She places both hands on the chair arms beside her and collects herself.

“Yes.”

It still does not prepare her for the look of horror that crosses Pippa’s face, or for Pippa to stumble back into her chair and raise a shaking hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and dark with something Hecate won’t name.

“Oh.”

And then Pippa’s crying, turning nearly sideways in her chair to try to hide it from Hecate, words tearing out of her, wet and shaking as she gasps for air.

“You’re just so _brilliant_ , Hecate. Nobody has a mind like yours. And you don’t _need_ me, not the way I need you. I’ve always been a distraction from your work, I’ve always just gotten in your way, not the other way around, I know that. I do. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

She’s bending nearly in half against the arm of the chair, trembling, her hand raised to hide her face from Hecate as her most private fears and vulnerabilities tumble out of her.

“I-I-I k-know I’m just a silly witch,” she stutters to Hecate’s alarm. “I know that I’m f-frivolous and that I love _pink_ a-and sometimes, sometimes, when you get up and leave so suddenly without explanation I know that I have bored you with how trivial I am, just like I did the first time. And -- and -- I know what have must have t-thought of of me back then, with my silly hair ribbons, and w-what y-you must think of me now, with my untraditional school --”

She wipes at her eyes defiantly and seems to try to collect herself, but harsh sobs continue to bubble up from her between her words.

“I know you think I’m betraying the magical standards you hold so dear and I -- I _know_ that I can never be who you need me to be. And I h-h-hated myself for so long after you left the first time, knowing what I was, and that I wasn’t enough. But I don’t anymore. I don’t care _what_ people say about me, not anymore.”

She tries to rise but trips a bit on her dress and flounders back into her seat.

“It’s ok, it’s ok. It’s going to be ok,” she whispers, much more to herself than Hecate, repeats it like a mantra as she smooths her dress.  

She takes a deep breath and a mask drops over her face, and Hecate watches in horror as Pippa schools her expression into one of nonchalance.

Wiping the last of the tears from her eyes, she prepares to rise from her seat again. “Good evening, Miss Hardbroom, I’m sorry for interrupting your night. I’ll be going now.”

But Hecate, stunned and horrified throughout this revelation, feels herself unlock her leadened muscles. She’s up and out her her chair before Pippa, pushing Pippa back down and kneeling before her, her dark dress billowing out across the floor around her.

“No! _No.”_ Pippa’s gaping at her intensity but she’s doesn’t care. She doesn’t care how this looks, or what consequences it might have for Pippa to know the truth now, not when she finally understands what Pippa has believed her heart to feel all these years. She picks up Pippa’s hands and holds them tightly over her own heart. 

“Pipsqueak - “ her voice breaks on the name and it’s all she can do to not bury her face in Pippa’s skirts and beseech her for forgiveness.

She looks up into Pippa’s wide, red-rimmed eyes and squeezes her hands tighter against her heart before bringing one of her own up to cup Pippa’s face.

 _“No.”_ She pulls Pippa closer until their foreheads rest together, until they’re nearly breathing the same air -- in, out, in, out -- and then she’s whispering,

_No, no, my sweet. You’re the brightest, bravest, truest witch I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Not silly. Never silly. Pipsqueak, kindness is not silly. Your passion --  oh, oh god, Pippa -- you could never be frivolous. I think your school is brilliant. You are brilliant, Pippa Pentangle. Your students are lucky to have a witch like you. Gorgeous, clever, Pippa. How could I ever be bored by you, I couldn’t be, not for a second. Not ever. No, darling, not that. Never that. Never, ever, that. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Pippa. Pippa. Pippa. I’m sorry. Please._

Pippa trembles against her and extracts a hand from over Hecate’s heart, brings it up to cup Hecate’s face, leaving their other hands trapped between their bodies. She strokes her thumb over her cheekbone, once, twice, three times, before she whispers a quivering _“Why, then? ”_ nearly against Hecate’s lips.

Hecate draws back slightly so she can look Pippa in the eyes. She owes it to her. If she’d only  _known_ what Pippa had believed Hecate thought of her for all these years, she would have come clean with the truth thirty years ago. And she owes her the truth.

Still, it takes all the strength she can muster to form the words.

“Because I’d rather have you hate me for hating you, than have you hate me for loving you.”

Shame and fear well up inside her and she releases Pippa to sit back on the floor feeling so pitifully _foolish_ with her long skirts and sleeves strewn out about her.

She clamps her eyes shut tightly for a moment before risking at look at Pippa who is breathing very fast indeed and twisting her fingers together in her lap.

“Love?” She whispers, and Hecate flushes, looking down and blinking away tears of guilt and disgrace over her admission.

But then Pippa’s sliding from her chair, down to meet Hecate on the floor, her own skirts catching the air and floating about her as she crawls up to meet Hecate, nearly into her lap.

“Love.” Pippa repeats, slim flingers coming up to hold Hecate’s face in her hands, bringing their foreheads together once more.

And then, slowly, oh so slowly, Pippa kisses her. Gently. Sweetly. Drawing back only when Hecate begins to cry, big gulping sobs to rival Pippa’s from before, and Pippa is pulling herself more fully onto Hecate’s lap and then pulling Hecate arms around her so that her head is buried in Pippa’s shoulder as she holds her.

“But I - I thought - “ Hecate tries. Tries to explain. To find clarity.

“I know, I know,” sighs Pippa, running soothing circles up and down her back as Hecate gulps for air. The clock on the wall ticks on, but this time the room is filled with Hecate’s stuttering breaths and Pippa’s soft murmurs of reassurance. When she’s calm, she pulls back to look at Pippa, blushing.

“ _You_ silly witch,” Pippa whispers, and Hecate feels her stomach unclenching, her heart unraveling.

Her secret is out. For the first time ever. And here Pippa Pentangle is sitting in her lap looking at her knowingly through her lashes. Hecate sucks in a breath and tries not to pass out. Pippa laughs gently.

And then Pippa’s kissing her, rather less gently. Rather more insistently, until Pippa’s mouth is open beneath her own, and her fingers are tangling in Pippa’s long, blond hair and Pippa is making small noises against her mouth that make Hecate respond in kind.

They tumble back against the cold stone of the floor, and Hecate doesn’t even care that it’s undignified, not when Pippa’s crawling once more on top her her and pressing hot, wet kisses behind her ear and down her neck and back up to her mouth where their tongues slide together in a way that makes Hecate’s body arch up to fit perfectly against Pippa’s.

And maybe, this time, it belongs there, she thinks hazily, as Pippa pulls her arms up above her head and links their fingers together.

And it seems Pippa thinks so too, as she gazes down at Hecate beneath her -- midnight blue dress, a loop of hair slipping loose from her bun, color high on her cheeks.

“You’re gorgeous,” Pippa murmurs, dipping her head to kiss Hecate’s eyelids, her cheek, the corner of her mouth before drawing back to survey her again. Hecate wiggles one arm out from under Pippa’s and smooths her fingers across Pippa’s cheek, down to her mouth, gasping as Pippa nips at her thumb before bringing it between her lips.

 _I love you_ , she wants desperately to say, but can’t summon the words. She takes in the flush on Pippa’s cheeks, much darker than the glittering blush of her dress, her swollen lips, the way her eyes glint as she presses her hips down against Hecate’s a little more firmly.

Instead she pulls Pippa down to her, rolls them onto their sides so they can slot together more perfectly and lets herself say it with her hands, her mouth, her tongue.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

__________

It’s the shortest night of the year and a deep, serene, quiet has settled over Hecate’s bedchamber as the last stars fade from the sky.

She hasn’t slept a wink, can’t bare to take her eyes off Pippa, curled securely in her arms. And as the sky in the east turns a pale rose-gold, it seems that Pippa feels the same. Hecate can just begin to make out her eyes in the dawn light, watching Hecate as carefully as Hecate is watching her.

Pulling Pippa closer she whispers, “Happy Midsummer, Pipsqueak.” It sounds shy even to her own ears and Pippa moves her head on the pillow so that she can better meet Hecate’s gaze.

“Happy Midsummer, my darling, Hiccup.”

She brushes her fingers down Hecate’s arm and Hecate thanks the goddess for the dim light as she blushes, recalling the last few hours she has spent with Pippa on her floor and then, later, in her bed.

Pippa seems to read her thoughts and grins at her, which only makes her flush more thoroughly.

“You know what they say about Midsummer,” Pippa teases, her voice giving away that she is prepared for Hecate’s driest of retorts.

But Hecate, half cursing, half thanking Dimity Drill, brings Pippa’s hand to her lips and places and kiss to each knuckle as she recites each line:

 _“Witches’ reign,_  
_Love revealed,_  
_Won’t love in vain,_  
_Hearts be healed.”_

She finishes and brings Pippa’s hand to rest over her heart, feeling uncertain until she sees the sheen of tears in Pippa’s eyes.

“Why, Hecate Hardbroom, I’d never in all my days have peg you for a schoolyard romantic,” Pippa ribs, her voice gentle and slightly tremulous.  

The first rays of light are peeking in through the window now and Hecate lets her gaze soak up every details of their bodies entwined on the bed. The small birthmark on the left of Pippa’s hip, the smooth expanse of her flat stomach, the slope of her shoulders, long muscled legs, the gentle swell of her breast that Hecate finds beneath her hand.

She’s breathing very fast all of a sudden and Pippa eyes are dancing with laughter, before they darken into something less innocent, and Hecate finds herself pinned once more under Pippa’s weight.

“Thirty years, Hecate,” Pippa intones moving her body against Hecate’s in a way that makes her brain nearly short circuit. “Thirty years I’ve waited to wake up in your bed.” She drops a kiss onto Hecate’s collar bone. “Thirty years I’ve waited to have you like this,” she presses a strong thigh between Hecate’s legs and Hecate _trembles_. “Yes,” Pippa breathes, fingers ghosting down, down, down, “just like this.”

She kisses Hecate then, fingers gripping firmly at her hips and tongue swirling against Hecate’s lower lip before drawing it into her mouth and sucking.

Hecate Hardbroom has never demeaned herself enough to plead with anyone, ever, in her life, thank you _very_ much. But she doesn’t see any reason why that can’t change today.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always-la-belle-epoque on Tubmlr if you're looking for an outlet to scream about Hecate Hardbroom and Pippa Pentangle. That's pretty much all I do these days.


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